Montana
by Ericka Jane
Summary: He knows there's no way he'll make it down the trail and back to town before he bleeds out. He knows Dean knows it too. Hurt!Sam. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So I had an idea and it totally ran away with me. The basic idea is that Sam and Dean are in Montana while their dad is hunting elsewhere, and they stumble onto a case. It seriously has everything: Sam and Dean being brothers, a bully, a fight, a case, an injury, and h/c like you wouldn't believe. I'm actually really proud of this one so I'd love to know what you all think (good or bad.)

**Be aware of:** language, blood and injuries, a few bad words against John (but nothing that's really untrue), talk of sexual preferences, and…I think that's it. Sam's 16 and Dean's 21.

**Also:** The stupid site messed up my original formatting**. **There is a section somewhere in the middle that has paragraph breaks indicated by this:** /**

* * *

><p><strong>Montana<strong>

* * *

><p>The door slams open and shut, letting the frigid air cool the sweat box they're currently staying in. The furnace is broken but not in the conventional way; they can't turn the damned thing down or off. It's a balmy eighty-two degrees in the three bedroom rental, a stark contrast to the twenty-eight degree chill outside. Sam's lounging on the ugly floral sofa with a bare chest and cut off shorts.<p>

Dean comes stomping into the living room, shaking snow off and stripping off winter layers.

"It's hot as_ shit _in here."

"I know," Sam replies, bored as he flips the page in his history text book.

"I hate this friggin' town."

Sam rolls his eyes. Dean's managed to tell him the same grievance at least once a day every day, for the past four weeks. He wonders if this is some way for Dean to get back at him for always hating everywhere they go, for hating this life, for being a teenager. God knows Dean's listened to him complain about towns and schools enough, maybe Dean figures he'd turn the tables. Sam wouldn't put it past him. Or maybe Dean just really hates this town. Who knows.

Honestly, Sam doesn't see what the big deal is. Eureka, Montana isn't much different from other towns they've stayed in: small, conservative, anonymous. It has a school, a church, some diners, mountains, and a lot of trees. It's also a stone's throw away from the Canadian border, which is new as far as towns are concerned, but Sam doesn't see why Dean would have a problem with that.

Dean drops his snow-wet jacket on Sam, the cold burns his over-heated skin.

"Dean!"

"Whatchya reading, geek?" Dean asks as he flops into the arm chair on the other side of the room. He picks up the remote and ignores Sam's glare.

Sam shoves the coat onto the floor angrily and wipes the melted snow of this chest. "Doing history homework," He grumbles.

Dean half snorts but smiles fondly as he starts flipping through channels, "Dad call?"

"No."

Sam can tell that it was the answer Dean expected but he can also see the brief, nearly undetectable flash of disappointment in his eyes. Fresh anger burns in Sam's stomach. Their dad…

He wouldn't go as far as to say he hates their father because he doesn't. Sam hates that he's selfish, that he's stubborn, that he thinks extra PT is a suitable punishment, and that he doesn't come to his school plays or soccer games. But what Sam hates most of all is that their dad has turned Dean into a mindless soldier who's willing to do anything and everything it takes to make John proud. He hates that John makes Dean need and love the hunt. He hates that their dad can crush Dean with a simple look or word, that he can make Dean feel like he didn't try hard enough. Sam can never forgive their dad for any of that, especially not when he's trying to do the same thing to him.

He wishes he could make them understand, make them both understand, why he doesn't want this life. Dad and Dean, they're always preaching to him about family, mom, and saving people from the same fate. Sam understands that. But family isn't going to matter if they're all dead. It isn't the moving that gets him or even the hunting; it's wondering if this is the time that his family's not coming back. It's knowing that one day they _won't_ be coming back. And Sam just can't take it anymore.

"Hey, space cadet!"

Sam starts briefly and looks at Dean, who's staring with annoyance.

"What?"

Dean rolls his eyes, "I said, let's get target practice outta the way so we can get some food. I'm starving."

"You're always starving," Sam mumbles but follows Dean out into the cold anyways, ducking when his brother tries to cuff him on the back of the head.

* * *

><p>"Winchester!"<p>

Sam stops in his tracks with a soft sigh. He's well aware of all the other students stopping as well. He feels like the circus freak with everyone watching to see what he's going to do. Robert Canova has been bothering him ever since Sam refused to write his theory paper for him three weeks ago, thus gaining himself a mortal enemy.

Maybe Dean's onto something when he says this town sucks.

When Sam doesn't immediately turn, Robert pushes Sam in the left shoulder, making him stumble slightly. Sighing again, resigned to the fact that he's going to have to deal with this joker _again_, Sam turns and glares at Robert's sneer. So far he's been able to avoid getting in a physical fight but Sam's getting the feeling that it isn't going to happen this time. For reasons unknown to Sam, Robert has a look of pure rage and _hate_ on his face.

"What's your deal?" Sam's tone implies weariness and boredom, but his feet are shifted into a subtle fighting stance, and his shoulders are tense. He's prepared for a fight, if it should come down to that.

"_You_ are my deal, Winchester."

Sam rolls his eyes and barely restrains himself from saying something that would surely escalate this fight, which is getting more stupid by the minute.

The next thing he knows Robert has his shirt curled up in his fists, and he's slamming Sam against the nearest locker. Sam mentally curses himself for getting distracted for those two seconds, and considers his options: either fight back, or let Robert run the show. As annoying and humiliating as it may be, he thinks his best option is to let Robert think he's holding the chips right now; if all Robert wants to do is threaten and insult, then Sam can walk away from this without getting suspended or worse.

"Listen, Winchester. You stay outta my way, you hear me? Stay the fuck away," Robert growls as his fists tighten impossibly tighter in the front of Sam's shirt.

Sam would point out that he goes out of his way to make sure that he _does_ avoid Robert, mostly because they're meant to keep their head down when their dad's not in town. He'd point out that Robert's the one who's always doing shit like this and making them cross paths, because Robert's the one who has some kind of vendetta. Sam would say all of this, if it wasn't for the fear tangled up with the anger in Robert's eyes.

For a moment Sam's confused. He's seen panic and fear before, the real thing, and he can see it in Robert's face. But he doesn't understand why…

Until he notices that Robert's a little too close despite the situation they're in, that his leg is pressed up right alongside Sam's, and that Robert's having a hard time keeping his eyes from drifting downwards.

And suddenly Sam gets it; he understands exactly what has been going on the past few weeks. He softens in sympathy, feeling all of his anger and irritation melt.

"Sure. I'll stay outta your way," Sam says, because what else could he say?

Sam can still see the emotions warring in Robert's eyes when Dean's voice, tight with anger and warning, sounds from behind Robert's back.

"You're gonna want to let go of my brother. Now."

Robert drops his hands as if he'd been burned and backs away just as quickly. Released, Sam slowly eases his way from the lockers and takes a place next to Dean.

Sam's worried. He knows that Dean's been aware of Robert bullying him the past few weeks, but now that he's caught him in the act, he doesn't know if Dean will keep his fists to himself.

Dean takes a threatening step towards Robert. To Robert's credit, he doesn't move, only flinches.

"You come near my brother again and you'll be pickin' your teeth off the floor. Got it, Canova?" Dean says as he points at Robert threateningly.

Robert sneers but Sam can see the fear, the _relief_, in his eyes when he says, "Got it."

Dean glares for a second more before he turns, "C'mon, Sam."

Sam throws one last look at Robert, something twisted up in understanding and sympathy, before he follows Dean to home room.

"You didn't have to do that," Sam says.

"I know I didn't Sam, because _you_ could've. Why the hell did ya just let him throw you around like that?" Dean's pissed but Sam can't tell who he's pissed at. It could be any combination of Sam, Robert, or even Dean himself.

"He has a crush on me."

Sam can feel Dean's shock when he pauses briefly and turns wide eyes to him. "So? What, you like him back? Dude, that's no reason to let him shove you around. Do we need to talk about…"

"No, Dean," Sam interrupts in annoyance, "Think about it. _He has a crush on me_."

He watches Dean work through the information and he sees the moment it clicks into place. A small spark of sympathy ignites in Dean's eyes but it's dulled because crush or not, Robert threatened Dean's little brother.

"That…that sucks," Dean finally says, and Sam can tell that he means it.

"Yeah."

Because it does. Being gay, or even thinking you might be gay, in a town like this is downright dangerous. Living with that fear and pressure is bound to twist something up inside you. Like when you have a crush on the boy in your class and the only thing you can think of to do in order to survive is beat the shit out of him.

Sometimes Sam thinks his life isn't so bad.

They get in the Impala, ready to drive back to the sauna they're calling a house, but Dean just sits in the driver's seat. Sam looks at Dean, looks at the key in the ignition, and says, "Dean?"

"It'd be ok, you know. If you liked him too."

Dean faces foreword when he says it (Dean's always been uncomfortable when it comes to anything remotely sincere and emotional) but Sam knows he means the sentiment just as much as he meant the threat he gave Robert.

Sam's not interested in guys, but knowing that he has Dean's support regardless makes Sam's chest tighten and eyes burn. It's moments like these that Sam knows he has the best brother in the world, that he knows that he couldn't love him any more than he already does.

But all Sam does is smile and say, "Yeah. I know."

Dean smirks softly, turns the engine over, and peels out of the parking lot, Metallica blaring.

* * *

><p>"Dad called," Dean says as he sits across from Sam and starts digging into the mac n' cheese that they whipped up.<p>

"What'd he say?" Sam doesn't really want to know but he knows it's expected of him to ask.

"He caught wind of another werewolf a few towns over from where he is, he thinks it may have been a pack. He'll be home next month after the full moon."

Sam can't decipher the tone in Dean's voice and that bothers him, but he can see the tension in Dean's shoulders and knows that whatever Dean's feeling, it isn't good.

"Do we have enough…"

"He's mailing cash and I do know how to hustle, Sam." This time Sam can pick up on the tone: hostile, threatening, sarcastic.

They don't talk for the rest of dinner.

* * *

><p>A few days later Dean drops a newspaper on Sam's open text book, earning him a glare.<p>

"Read it, dork face."

_**Three Teens Mauled at Stahl Peak**_

Sam shrugs and pushes the paper off his book, "Probably a bear or cougar. Even if it wasn't, dad's gone. He'd kill us if we took on a case alone."

"Ok, first of all, I'm 21, dude. Second of all, there was a survivor. Four of them went up the trail, three were shish kabobed. The survivor? Said that the thing had glowing red eyes. What does that sound like to you?"

Sighing, Sam pushes his text book away, knowing that Dean wasn't going to give up until Sam at least paid some attention.

"Could've just been the lighting. Did they have a fire? Any kind of flashlight?"

"Eyes still wouldn't have been red," Dean argues, "They'd have been yellow or that creepy green."

Sam nods. "Couldn't have been a werewolf; full moon ended four days ago. Not the right M.O. for a wendigo and not the right description for a black dog. Could be a chupacabra but they don't usually go after humans. Guess that leaves an adlet; it'd make the most sense with the red eyes description."

"We should check out the bodies, see if they're _mauled_ mauled or just adlet mauled. There's a difference."

"How we gonna do that, Dean? Dad's not here to play fake FBI and dude, I don't care if you're 21. No one's gonna believe you're any kind of cop or agent," Sam says.

"It's called B&E, braniac," Dean replies and flicks Sam's ear hard as he walks out of the room.

"Jerk."

* * *

><p>"Oh yeah, definitely an adlet."<p>

They have the first body uncovered to the waist, bathed in white from their flashlights.

"Report says the bodies were drained dry. Not a drop between the three of them," Sam says as he shines his light on the manila folder he's flipping through.

"Guess that settles that," Dean says as he pulls the sheet back over the body.

"What do we do?" Sam asks, setting down the folder.

Dean rubs the back of his head and stares at the closed doors of the freezers.

"We go after it," Dean finally says, "Dad's not gonna be back for a month and this thing could do too much damage in that time. So we go after it."

Sam nods even as the sharp sting of fear guts him.

"Hey," Dean says, "You trust me?"

"Yes," There's not even the briefest hesitation.

"We'll watch each other's backs like always, right? It's gonna be ok."

They climb back through the window they jimmied and walk home with Dean's arm slung around Sam's shoulders the whole way.

* * *

><p>It's a Friday when they set out for Stahl Peak. The trail's long and tough, running right up the mountain side. They each carry packs with provisions, first aid kits, weapons, water, and sleeping bags. With the added weight, the hike isn't exactly fun. The snow and cold doesn't help much either. It's freezing temperatures, so they're bundled up in ski jackets, insulated boots, and heavy gloves.<p>

At least the adlet should be easy to take down. They're strong but not incredibly fast, and their eyes usually give away their position. All it takes is a silver bullet to put it down. So long as they avoid the thing's claws they should be golden.

_Golden_, Sam thinks cynically, _not with our luck._

It's the claws that get you, in the end. First there's the actual mechanics of it; getting clawed open by anything is a sure way to earn yourself a trip to the hospital or the morgue, possibly both. The adlet's claws have venom in the tips, which has an anti-coagulant property. The adlet survives by drinking blood; if the wound can't clot then it's like an all you can eat buffet.

Fun times, as Dean would say.

**/**

It's just after one and they're about half way through the trail.

"Let's take a break, dude. Eat something, hydrate, take in the scenery."

Sam's had about enough of the scenery but he doesn't mention it to Dean. The last thing they need out here in the wilderness is an argument.

They park themselves on a log and eat granola bars and jerky in silence. It feels weird, hunting without their dad, kind of like wearing two different shoes. It works just the same but everything feels off. He wonders if Dean feels it too, if he's just as unsure and worried. If he is, he's hiding it well.

"Ready, Sammy?"

That's one thing that's definitely different about hunting without their dad: dad orders. Dean asks.

"Yeah."

**/**

It's nearly three when they reach the peak where the kids were mauled. It's taped off and they duck under it, brushing the bright yellow plastic with their packs.

"Jesus," Dean breathes as they take in the sight.

There's blood everywhere, stark red and rusty against the white snow. It's spattered on plants, on rocks, on trees.

"Guess the cleaning crew hasn't come yet," Sam says tonelessly.

Dean shifts slightly, brushing his shoulder up against Sam's, "They probably figured it'd melt away, or get snowed over.

A heavy silence passes between them for a moment before Dean breaks it, "C'mon, let's look for tracks; see if we can figure out how it attacked."

They follow the scuffs, scrapes, prints, and claw marks until they get a pretty good picture of what happened. The four teens were sitting on the ground, probably throwing back a few beers, when the adlet crept in from behind. It took them by surprise, mauled two of them before they even realized what was happening. The other two ran, only the one who was closest to the massacre was dragged back, leaving the sole survivor to make a break for it.

"It doesn't seem to have much tact. It looks like it was just passing by and sniffed them out," Dean says as he crouches by some bushes, "It settled here but didn't stay long, probably just long enough to scope out its prey. Then it launched. Poor bastards were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"So basically we're dealing with an oaf with poisonous claws," Sam states.

"Pretty much."

"Great."

* * *

><p>They make camp south of the peak, unwilling to be too close just in case it's the adlet's hunting grounds, but wanting to stay close enough to track it. They drag fallen logs to use as benches and create a small fire pit with rocks and branches. They have no intention of staying overnight in the freezing cold but they need a place to group, to decide what to do.<p>

"Now what?" Sam asks.

Dean's sitting on his log checking and re-checking the weapons, just the way John taught them, "Well, we can do this one of two ways. One, we track it the old fashioned way or two, we use bait."

"The hell are we gonna use for bait?"

Dean shrugs in a way that makes Sam's stomach flip and his mouth tighten.

"We're not using you, if that's what you're thinking. There's no way."

"I didn't say anything," Dean replies, his hands up in surrender.

"You didn't have to," Sam snarls.

Sam's pissed, _furious_. Dean must've had this plan already in mind when they started up the trail. They didn't think to bring raw meat or blood from the butcher (_stupid_) and Dean probably realized that it'd take too long to track the thing the old fashioned way, and without dad. Sam also knows there's no way Dean would let him be the bait instead. The goddamned self-sacrificing _asshole_…

"Sammy…"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam snaps, "You said. You _promised_ that we'd watch each other's backs. How the hell are you supposed to watch my back if you're torn to shreds, huh? Dad's not here, Dean. You don't have anything to prove."

Dean's eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. Sam sees the wall slam down in his brother's eyes, the same way it always does when he brings up John's influence over Dean. For reasons Sam can't understand, Dean holds their dad on the highest pedestal. It's so high that Dean can't even see what John's doing any more. And that pisses Sam off because Dean doesn't deserve to be under anyone's thumb, especially when that thumb is looking to squash him.

"How else are we gonna do it, huh Sam? Are you going to go out and fetch us a deer that we can slaughter? Or a rabbit? Or a goddamned squirrel? Cause I sure as hell ain't."

"Maybe you should've thought of that before we started up this trail!"

"Maybe you should shut the hell up and do as you're told!"

They're right up in each other's faces by now, ironically reminding Sam of his altercation with Robert almost a week ago. Only Sam's not going to let this fight go because he's not John, and he's not going to let Dean get hurt for the hunt. He pushes down the sting that resulted from Dean's words, and puts his hands on Dean's shoulders, shoving his brother enough to make him stumble.

"Screw you, Dean! You're not dad and you said we'd do this hunt together. Ordering me around and offering yourself up like a lamb is not doing this together!"

Dean rights himself and shoves Sam back, who slips and barely avoids braining himself on a nearby rock. When he shakes off the shock from hitting the ground, Dean's already stalking away, putting space between them before someone does something stupid.

Sam throws a rock in frustration, cursing his stubborn brother, this hunt, and their dad, and waits for Dean to come back. He knows it won't be long.

Twenty minutes later Sam's on the ground, leaning against the tree with his eyes closed. He's able to pick up each whisper of the earth like this; every rustle of the leaves, the shrill sounds of insects, and the snaps of branches are magnified like they're on surround sound. So he hears Dean approach from yards away. Dean sits next to him, his knee pressed up firmly against Sam's. Sam doesn't open his eyes yet.

"You were right," Dean says. "If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it together. We'll figure out another way."

Sam cracks open his eyes. Dean's sitting next to him cross legged, just an arm's reach away. Sam sits up from the tree so that they're shoulder to shoulder.

"Yeah. I'm sorry too."

* * *

><p>"I hate this, Sammy."<p>

Sam shrugs and holds the knife out to Dean. It's the agreement they settled on. There is no way they are gonna let each other be bait, so the only option is for them to both do it. They decide to cut open their hands and use the blood as bait, and hopefully it'll be enough to draw the adlet in. They chose an area closer to the peak, hoping the adlet frequents the area and will be enticed by the fresh blood.

Dean sighs and grabs the knife, wasting no time in pressing the sharp blade into the meat of his palm; he winces deeply but doesn't make a sound. Sam grabs a bottle of water and douses the blade, washing off the blood. Dean flips the weapon over and hesitantly hands the knife to Sam handle first. Sam knows that Dean isn't exactly happy with this; it kind of goes against his big brother instincts. In the end Sam argued that, "It's just a cut, Dean. It'll heal in like, two weeks tops," and Dean grumbled but relented. Sam makes the cut with a low hiss between his teeth.

Palms cut, the boys make a huge circle with their blood, pressing it into tree bark and onto flat surfaces.

"Now we wait," Sam says as he surveys the dark smears.

"No, now we clean your hand," Dean replies firmly, grabbing Sam by the elbow and directing him back to camp.

Sam rolls his eyes, "You have a cut up hand too, genius."

"Yeah and when I'm done fixing you up you can do something about it."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

* * *

><p>It's getting close to sundown; the mountains and trees are painted bright orange and red as the sun slowly sinks bellow the skyline. Nestled in the forest, Sam and Dean melt into the emerging shadows, keeping silent as they wait for their prey. They've been staked out for close to an hour now, guns in hand, tense and prepared. Sam knows where Dean is - about ten yards to his right - but it's getting harder to see him as darkness creeps in. His limited vision of his sibling doesn't bother him. Even from yards away, he can feel Dean's eyes drift over him every few minutes; he knows his brother's there.<p>

The forest is mostly silent, interrupted only by the wind rustling the trees and birds disrupting branches. With it being so quiet, it should be impossible to miss the adlet if it comes within range.

They_ should_ be able to hear the adlet from yards away but they don't, because they forgot one important thing: snow muffles sound.

So by the time Sam hears the tree branch snap and he turns around, the adlet's on him, a heavy weight that's suffocating and terrifying. He can't breathe, can't even think, under the mercy of the dog-like creature. Through the chaos he can barely hear Dean yelling in the background. Sam cries out as razor sharp claws cut through denim and his long johns, right into the meat of his thigh. It burns like acid and Sam doesn't know if that's the venom working of if it's from the wound itself. He brings an arm up to protect his face and throat from the jaws of the adlet; his right arm and his gun are pinned by the beast.

It all ends with the sharp explosion of Dean's Taurus; the silver bullet cuts through the adlet's head, dropping it instantly. There's blood on Sam's face, the adlet is crushing him, and Christ his leg _hurts_.

"Dean…" The word is barely a whisper.

"Sammy!" Dean crashes to his knees next to Sam and immediately shoves the adlet off. "Are you hurt?" he asks, even as he looks up and down Sam's body, assessing. Sam sees the moment that Dean notices his slashed thigh, seeping blood.

"Shit," Dean hisses and yanks his coat off, pressing the fabric into the cut, "_Shit_. Ok, Sammy look at me, hey. You're gonna be ok, we're gonna get out of here."

Sam can feel the blood pumping right out of his body, soaking through Dean's coat, running through his fingers. He knows there's no way he'll make it down the trail and back to town before he bleeds out. He knows Dean knows it too. As if he's thinking Sam's thoughts, Dean backs off for a second and yanks his belt out of his jeans. He wraps it around the top of Sam's thigh, tying it off tightly but not too tightly. Sam can see his hands shaking.

"Dean."

"It's gonna be ok," Dean repeats. Sam's unsure who he's trying to reassure at this point.

"It's not."

"It _is_," Dean insists, his eyes flaring in determined panic, his hands pushing more insistently at Sam's wound.

The snow is soaking in through Sam's clothes to his skin, he can feel the cold and wet pressing against his back and legs. Dean's hands haven't moved from his thigh and his eyes are locked on Sam's; he's never seen his brother look this scared. Dean breaks the connection and gently moves the coat away from the laceration. Sam can't see it but he can feel the blood run down his leg, a steady flow of life burning out of him. Dean's jaw ticks and he presses the fabric back over the wound; Sam grunts at the pain.

"You know what we gotta do, Sam," Dean says as he turns his eyes back to Sam. His voice is apologetic but unrelenting.

Sam's heart thumps in his chest with anxiety and his eyes burn, but he refuses to let tears fall. Not yet, anyways.

"Yeah, I know."

He's already starting to feel weak, the world's looking hazy, and he knows if they don't do this, he's going to die.

* * *

><p>Dean carries him back to camp bridal style, all the while muttering reassurances and cracking bad jokes.<p>

As gently as possible, Dean sets Sam down so that he's leaning up against one of the logs they were sitting on earlier. He steadies Sam as he starts to slump to the side, too tired and in too much pain to stay up right.

Dean cups Sam's face in his hands, "Hey, stay with me ok? Just a little longer, Sammy. C'mon."

Sam nods sloppily as if drunk and Dean curses.

"Alright. Hang on."

Dean disappears for a moment, standing to grab his pack a few feet away. He reaches in and rustles through it, throwing things on the ground that they're going to need: the first aid kit, lighter fluid, hunting knife, and liquor.

"Ok, ok," Dean mutters to himself, as much for his benefits as for Sam's. Maybe if he keeps talking things won't be so bad. Maybe if he keeps talking, they can pretend that they aren't in this worst case scenario.

He grabs everything and shoves it into the crook of his arm, hauling everything back over to Sam. He dumps the supplies, grabs the lighter fluid, and douses the branches that are piled in their fire pit.

"You with me, Sammy?" Dean asks frantically as he lights a match and drops it in the pit. It ignites in a huge burst of orange. Once the initial inferno dulls to a manageable size, Dean props the hunting knife against one of the stones, letting the blade rest in the flames.

"Yeah," Sam's voice is weak, straining with pain, but there.

"Ok," Dean says and scoots up into the v-shape of Sam's legs. He presses down on the coat, wincing when Sam lets out a pained noise, "I know, m'sorry."

"S'ok," Sam pants, clenching his fists as he rides out the pain.

The silence that envelopes them is heavy with fear and anxiety. They know what's coming and neither of them wants to go through with it.

"Never should've come out here," Dean mutters as he glares at the blood-soaked coat, which is probably next to useless by now.

"Shuddup," Sam mutters.

Dean's free hand briefly cups the side of Sam's neck; Sam recognizes it for the apology that it is: sorry that we're here, sorry for letting it get you, sorry that I can't make it stop. Sam clumsily reaches up and squeezes Dean's wrist. Apology accepted.

Fifteen minutes later they can no longer delay it. Sam's pale and getting paler, and the cut is still bleeding heavily.

Dean takes a deep breath, "Sam? Hey look at me."

Sam turns bleary, terrified eyes to his brother but holds his gaze.

"We need to do this, Sam. OK?"

Sam's breathing hitches and tears noticeably fill his eyes, but he presses his lips together and nods.

"I'm gonna be right here, ok?" Dean reassures as he gently pulls the belt from Sam's thigh and then holds it up, "I want you to bite down on this as hard as you can."

Sam grabs the worn leather from Dean and shoves it into his mouth, clenching it between his teeth. Dean pulls the coat away, grimacing at the amount of blood, and drops it down next to him. Then he rips Sam's jeans so that there's no fabric in the way of the wound. He grabs the vodka bottle from beside him, unscrews it, and pours a liberal amount over the cut. Sam tenses and cries out gruffly, squirming slightly under the sting. Dean keeps a hand on his shin, trying to ground his sibling. Wound cleaner but still bleeding, Dean braces himself for what he has to do next.

With a shaky breath he turns back to the fire and takes hold of the heated knife. Once he has it in hand, he scoots as close to Sam as possible, placing himself right between Sam's legs so that he has room to cauterize the wound, and so that Sam has something to anchor too. Immediately Sam grabs on, fisting Dean's jacket in both hands tightly, burying his face in his brother's side.

Dean takes another deep breath, "You ready?"

He feels Sam nod against his ribs.

Heart pounding, Dean steadies his hands, and presses the hot metal to the claw mark. Sam bucks and screams; the sound is loud and decipherable even though it's muffled by Dean's jacket. Dean takes the knife off the wound, feeling his own tears prick his eyes. He knows that it's not over yet. Steeling himself and pressing a restraining hand against Sam's leg, he touches the knife to the wound again, making sure the skin is sealed. The sound Sam makes is near inhuman, tortured. It cuts into Dean like a dull blade, painful and invasive. He removes the knife once more and looks at the cut. It's red, angry, and undeniably painful, but it's no longer bleeding. Relief mixes with fear and pain in Dean's stomach, and he feels like throwing up. He tosses the knife away in disgust and turns his attention to Sam.

"Sammy? Sam, hey, you with me?" Dean gently shoulders Sam so that he's no longer leaning into him, and he can see Sam's face. Sam's hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, tears cover his face, and he's shaking under Dean's hands. Dean can barely understand how his brother's still conscious. He gently pries the belt from Sam's mouth, it comes away with teeth imprints and strings of saliva. Dean reaches up to push his bangs off Sam's forehead.

"Sammy?"

Sam's eyes slit open; they're filled with exhaustion and lingering pain, "Dean?"

"Yeah. It's over, kiddo. You're gonna be ok."

Sam's eyes slide shut, finally falling into sleep or unconsciousness. Dean guides his brother so that he's tucked into his chest, his chin resting on top of Sam's head. In a minute he's going to have to bury the bloody jacket, roll out the sleeping bags, lay down some salt, and prepare to stay the night. But for now he's going to hold his brother, feel Sam's back move as he breathes, and stop the trembling in his own hands.

* * *

><p>AN: For right now I'm leaving this as a oneshot but I may come back later and add a second part. I hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Sam wakes up drenched in sweat. His head feels groggy and slow, like he has a bad cold and is swimming in Nyquil. The sky above him is pitch black, dotted with endless white stars. Fluffy crystal-like snowflakes are lazily floating down like specks of dust; some of them fall on Sam's face and melt on his over-heated skin. His leg hurts less than it should, all things considering. Sam wonders if it's because he's delirious with fever or if there's some kind of nerve damage. He wouldn't be surprised if there was.

Sam rolls his head to the side to find Dean; the world shifts with him slowly, lagging like a skipping video. His brother is wrapped in one of their army grade sleeping bags; the only part of him that's visible is his hair and the hand he's stuck out to rest on Sam's chest. Now that Sam's paying attention, he realizes he's cocooned in a matching sleeping bag. He can also see the thick salt line circled around them and the shot gun resting on the other side of Dean.

Another wave of heat rolls over him and Jesus, you'd think after sleeping in that sauna they call a house he'd be used to this, but he isn't. Uncomfortable and unbearably hot, he shifts, planning to shimmy his way out of the sleeping bag. Without warning, agony blazes and spreads like an avalanche from his thigh, up through his chest, and back down again. Sam's ears ring and his vision whites out as the pain consumes him, he doesn't even know if he breathes. After what could've been seconds or minutes, the world slowly starts to come back into focus. Dean is the first thing he sees.

"…Sammy? You ok? _Sam!_" Dean's hands are on the sides of Sam's face, digging into his scalp slightly as if to hide the way they shake.

"M'ok," Sam finally gasps.

"Yeah, you sound ok. Jesus." Dean takes one of his hands off Sam's face so he can scrub at his own hair, "You scared the hell out of me, man. You just started screamin' outta nowhere, woke me up out of a dead sleep. Think I damn near had a heart attack."

Sam doesn't answer, just leans forward as if trying to curl into himself to make the pain more tolerable. Dean moves his hand to grasp the back of Sam's neck.

"You're too hot, think you have a fever. Gonna have to look at your leg to see if it's infected. I can finally give you something for the pain at least, as long as it hasn't started bleeding again," Dean rambles. He does that when things spiral out of his control. Sam's never really figured out if Dean talks to make himself feel better or if he does it for Sam, or if he even realizes he's doing it at all. Sam always takes comfort out of it regardless.

"I gotta look at your leg. Think you can move?"

Sam glares, thinking _no, he damn well cannot move, _but he nods anyways. Either way Dean was going to make him try.

"Slow, ok? Don't need you fainting on me again."

"I didn't faint," Sam mutters and then grits his teeth as he slowly starts to slide out of the sleeping bag.

"Sure you didn't, Sammy," Dean says and Sam thinks that if he wasn't in so much pain he'd smack his brother.

Dean works on easing the sleeping bag away as Sam gently (_painfully_) pulls his leg out of the encased fabric. By the time it's all said and done Sam really does feel like he's going to faint; he steadies himself out of sheer pride and stubbornness. Dean slowly peels off the bandage. Sam stares at the damage, feeling sort of detached. He's never had a wound this severe before and he almost can't believe he's staring at his own leg. The only way to describe it is barbaric. The laceration is indented like a shallow trench, sealed over with shiny skin that's a deep, angry red. Sam can feel every painful inch of the bastard, so he knows there isn't any permanent nerve damage or anything scary like that, but it's going to leave one helluva ugly scar.

"Doesn't look like it's infected," Dean says as he carefully inspects it, even going as far as to put his nose close to it to see if there's a stench, "Unless it's blood poisoning, in which case we are really and truly screwed."

"That's encouraging of you."

"…But I don't think it is. You're not sick enough," Dean finishes and slides his hand over Sam's forehead, grimacing at the sweat, "I think it's just shock, maybe more mental than physical. Getting clawed and branded will do that."

He takes his hand off and stares at Sam, "You ok?" Dean's face is pinched with worry but his eyes are narrowed like he's trying not to show it; it's a look Sam's too familiar with.

"Been worse."

Dean snorts, "When, five hours ago?"

"Basically."

Dean rolls his eyes but his expression turns remorseful, tinged with lingering fear. Sam feels his chest tighten at the look.

"Hey. I'm still here," Sam reassures gently, knocking his knee against Dean's even though it hurts like hell. His head still feels too light, and his skin too hot, _blood loss_, Sam thinks, but he's alive. He's alive because of Dean.

"Yeah," Dean replies, just as soft but not as certain.

It's enough, but at the same time, it really isn't.

**\**

The sun is half way over the horizon line the next time Sam wakes up. There's a thin layer of snow over his sleeping bag and he feels drained, like there's literally no life left in him. When he turns his head it feels like he's trying to move a bowling ball with his neck. Dean's not next to him and the sleeping bag is rolled up.

"D'n?"

Christ, even his tongue feels like it weighs fifty pounds.

Footsteps come from somewhere to his left, quickly followed by the sight of boots passing in front of his face. Dean crouches down next to him, "Bout time, Sleeping Beauty. How ya feelin?"

_Like I have sludge for blood and it's in short supply_, Sam thinks, but figures that saying as much would alarm Dean. He settles with grunting in the Winchester way that implies that he feels like shit.

"Don't blame ya," Dean replies as if he knows exactly what Sam's trying to say, "Getting back down this damn path is gonna suck."

The very thought of it fills Sam's stomach with dread.

"Might have to leave the supplies," Dean continues.

What Dean really means is, he's probably going to have to carry Sam and he can't do that and carry the packs too. Even if Sam bit the bullet and handled the pain from the injury, the blood loss combined with the cold would knock him on his ass in under an hour. It took them four hours to get up this trail the first time and that was when they were both in one piece.

"Maybe we should radio for search and rescue," Sam offers.

Dean looks like he's contemplating it but then shakes his head, "Not unless we're still on this damn rock when it starts to get dark. We can't spend another night out here." Decision made he says, "I'm gonna get you some pills and food. Then we gotta work on getting out of here."

Sam's tired just thinking of it. His bones feel like lead and his brain is mush. If Dean would let him, he'd lay in this sleeping bag until he either froze or starved. Dean would never let him.

He swallows the extra strength Tylenol (it's the strongest Dean will give him) and eats the granola bar Dean shoves into his hands. Then they both stare at nothing, prolonging the inevitable, wishing that things hadn't gone so wrong.

"What're we gonna tell dad?" Sam asks.

Dean doesn't answer for a while, long enough for Sam to wonder if he will at all. Eventually Dean says, "The truth."

For some reason the idea really bothers Sam. Dean will inevitably take the blame for it, some crap about being the oldest and it was his idea, yadda yadda yadda. John will inevitably lecture him and knock Dean down a peg or ten by saying he's disappointed. Sam _hates_ the idea of that. They went into this together. They did the research, climbed the mountain, screwed up, and survived together. So to Sam there are only two options here: either they take the fall together or they don't take it all.

Sam shakes his head, his mouth pressed into a tight, determined line, "We're not gonna tell him."

He's expecting a fight. He's expecting Dean to tell him that they can't lie to dad, and he screwed up so he should take the heat for it. The last thing he's expecting is for Dean to say, "Ok," all soft, and sincere, and _relieved_.

It kind of makes Sam want to cry. It's probably the blood loss.

**\**

Ten minutes later they finally force themselves to move. They settle on taking one pack filled with the weapons, food, first aid kit, and both sleeping bags. John may not notice a missing backpack but he'd definitely notice a missing sleeping bag. Dean puts the pack on his back and Sam carries the second sleeping bag under his arm. The arm that isn't carrying the bag is wrapped around Dean's waist for support. Dean's holding most of his weight but Sam's head is still swimming, and it feels like there's a hot poker jammed in his thigh.

"Ready? If you feel like you're gonna hit the deck…"

"Yeah, I know. Sound the alarm. Let's go."

It's a long, painful, hellish journey that takes twice as long as it should because Sam has to stop every half hour or so. They argue about Sam walking instead of being carried by Dean ("You almost fuckin' _bled to death_ last night, Sammy.") And about Sam taking a few days off school ("You are." "No, I'm _not_, Dean.") And whether or not the Batmobile is cooler than the Impala ("That's blasphemy, Sam.")

It passes the time and makes them think of something other than the biting cold, Sam stumbling, and the darkening horizon.

By the time they get to the bottom of the mountain night has fallen, and Dean's carrying Sam, who's passed out, shivering, and in a lot of pain. Dean mentally curses non-stop about goddamn adlets and their stupid poisonous claws, and this stupid over-sized rock they had to camp out on overnight _in the snow_, and this total screw up of a hunt.

The Impala is waiting for them, a shiny black beacon of safety, glittering with light snowflakes. It may be the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen. He eases Sam into the back seat, throws their gear in the trunk, and turns the ignition over. If the sight of the Impala is the most beautiful thing on earth, then the sound of her rumbling underneath them has to be a close second.

"Home free now, Sammy," Dean says softly, throwing a glance to the back seat.

Sam doesn't answer, still out cold, but he does curl into the seat tighter, as if he recognizes the safety of the soft leather.

* * *

><p>Sam wakes to familiar heat and mugginess, and the smell of gun oil and aftershave. <em>Home<em>, he thinks. It's the only place on earth that feels like the damn tropics without being the tropics. The room is dark and silent, lit up only by the moonlight creeping in through the thread-bare curtains. He doesn't remember half of the walk down the mountain, the ride home, or Dean tucking him into bed like a child, and he guesses that should be alarming, but it's not. Sam can feel Dean's presence without turning over to look. He knows from a lifetime of close proximity that his big brother is in the other bed sound asleep and safe.

Sam forces himself to drift back to sleep before the throb in his leg can turn into something less bearable.

* * *

><p>Three days later Sam's sitting on the sofa in his boxers and a tee shirt, staring at the healing mess on his leg. Dean walks in but stops short, seeing the troubled, verging on depressed look on his little brother's face. He watches as Sam reaches out to gently run a finger pad along the edge of the wound, flinching slightly as he aggravates the tender flesh. Dean sighs and plops down in the chair crosswise from the couch.<p>

"What's up, Sammy?"

Sam jumps and colors slightly, "Nothing. Just seeing if it's healing alright."

"We looked at it this morning, dude. Wanna try again?" Dean raises an unconvinced eyebrow before drinking down some of the beer he has in hand.

Sam looks aggravated for a second but it deflates into something much more vulnerable and distressed. Dean's immediately tense. He hates seeing that look on Sam's face almost as much as he hates the claw mark in his thigh.

"It's just that…it's gonna scar," Sam mutters as he toys with a string hanging off the sofa's cushion, and decidedly does not look at Dean.

Dean frowns in confusion, "Yeah, wouldn't be the first time."

"No. I mean it's gonna _scar_."

Oh. _Oh._ Dean thinks as he stares at his morose little brother. They've all had injuries before that left behind permanent marks but nothing as large or gruesome as this one. Sam had a diagonal chunk carved out of his leg and then sealed with a white-hot knife; something like that doesn't just smooth over like a paper cut. Sometimes Dean forgets that his brother is still just a teenager, a teenager who's dying to fit in and be normal, a teenager who's still insecure about his body. Dean would wear the scar like a war medal; Sam would wear it like a shameful flaw.

"It's only skin, Sammy," Dean says softly, "Anyone who cares isn't worth your time."

Sam shrugs, unconvinced. "What if dad sees?"

Dean's been thinking about that and coming up short. It may be a while, maybe even years, but eventually John would see the mark. Sam will inevitably get hurt at some point, they'll inevitably go somewhere too hot to wear jeans, John will inevitably know something's up. Not for the first time since this whole thing happened, Dean questions their decision to not tell their dad about the hunt. He already knows what would happen if they did: extra PT time, a look of disappointment that might not fade for months, eroded trust, not to mention a berating that would make a drill sergeant proud. Dean feels like he might deserve all of these things but at the same time…he doesn't. He, _they_, did what they felt was right. Their job is to hunt, to save people from things they don't even realize they need saving from, and they did that job. The one thing he's guilty of is not taking the snow into account when they were hunting the adlet, and that led to Sam getting hurt. That's on him. And there's nothing their dad could do or say that would punish him more than he's punishing himself.

"We'll take care of it," Dean says. He tries to sound more confident than he feels.

Because taking care of Sam is his job. He's going to do his job.

* * *

><p>A huge snow storm hits two weeks later, burying the town in almost five feet of snow in just over two days. The power miraculously stays on (for them, at least) but the phones and cable are out, and the radio news anchor says it may take up to a week to get everyone in working order again.<p>

They knew the storm was coming ahead of time so they stocked up on groceries and emergency supplies, covered the Impala with a tarp ("This is messed up, Sam. She shouldn't be left out here in this crap,") and settled in for the long haul.

On the second day of the storm Dean marches into the living room with a six pack, a pint of Captain, and a deck of cards. Sam raises an eyebrow and Dean shrugs, "Gotta pass the time somehow. You wanna learn how to play poker, or what?"

Sam pushes aside his homework and settles in on the floor across from Dean. Dean cracks his first beer and then hands one to Sam, "Drink responsibly, Sammy," he says with an amused smirk. Sam rolls his eyes and snatches the beer out of his hand.

"Alright, first things first, poker is all about reading people. You need to learn the tells to know where you stand in the game, and at the same time, mask any of your own. It's like hustling pool only harder because there's less interaction and no distractions to cover up the con."

Sam watches Dean deal the cards, feeling more content than he has in a long time. These are his favorite moments, when he gets to just hang out with Dean, and they're becoming sparser as they get older and Dean becomes more involved in hunting. He'd never admit it out loud but sometimes Sam just misses his brother.

"Are you payin' attention?" Dean demands, squinting his eyes into a glare.

"Yeah. I'm paying attention."

Four hours later the beer's gone, so is most of the pint, and the cards are scattered all over the floor. Sam and Dean are sitting side by side on the floor, leaning back against the sofa. Sam stares at the huge picture window from his spot, marveling at the stark white-out that's whirling in the wind.

"You can't see _anything_," Sam says in amazement.

"What?"

"Outside…it's so…so…white."

"You're drunk, Sam."

Sam snorts, "Look who's talkin'"

"Can hold my liquor better than you any day, kiddo," Dean replies with a smirk, even though Sam can hear the way his words slur together just slightly, as if he's tired.

"Sure you can," Sam says, just to humor him.

The living room's hotter than usual, thanks to the alcohol, and Sam's sticky with sweat. He's too lazy and uncoordinated to take off his over shirt though, so he tries to compensate by tugging the sleeves up to his elbow.

"S'hot in here," Sam says and leans his head back against the sofa.

"Mmmhmm."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"Why'd you agree to not tell dad?"

Sam doesn't know where the question came from. He's been thinking about it, sure; he's been thinking about it ever since the mountain, but he never intended to question it. He figured that for once Dean was going to make his own decision and Sam wasn't about to call it into question, because that might make Dean change his mind. Talking about it would most definitely piss Dean off so he doesn't know why he said it. Then he remembers the near empty pint of Captain and thinks that maybe it's not so surprising that he can't keep his mouth shut.

He's about to apologize or back track or say _something _to just blow it off, but Dean says, "Dad wouldn't understand. And it was ours, you know? He just wouldn't understand."

Sam opens his mouth and the closes it with an audible click. There's a lot he wants to say and even more that he wants to ask, but he doesn't. He feels ashamed of thinking that Dean's gonna back out of it and tell anyways, because lately Dean's been aligning himself with their dad more times than not. But Dean hates lying to their dad and this is one big lie, and what if John starts getting suspicious? What if he sees the newspaper or something? What if Dean starts feeling guilty? What if _Sam_ starts feeling guilty…

"You're really emo when you're drunk, you know that? Stop thinking before you ruin both of our buzzes," Dean says and drops a hand down to squeeze the back of Sam's neck reassuringly, like he _knows_.

Sam suddenly feels ashamed for a different reason. True, Dean does tend to side with their dad about everything, and true, he does hate lying to the man. But one thing Dean doesn't do is break a promise to Sam because they're brothers above all else, and that's untouchable, even to their dad.

They fall asleep in the living room. Morning comes and is unbearably bright; the sun reflects off all the snow and bounces right in through the uncovered living room window. Sam wakes up with a king of spades stuck to his sweaty cheek. He peels it off with a grimace while Dean grunts in a hung-over parody of a chuckle. They drag themselves into the kitchen for aspirin, water, and pancakes, all without a word.

* * *

><p>Their dad's due back in four days. He's been calling about once a week to make sure they have enough cash (they usually do), that they're keeping up on their training (they're kinda slacking, adlet hunt not included), and to make sure social services haven't been by (they haven't.) Sam's almost ashamed to admit that he doesn't want their dad to come home. He doesn't want his dad dead, not by any means, but when he's not around things are easier. Sam feels like he can breathe, and Dean's safe, and for once it feels like they're living instead of just surviving. Maybe it's irrational but Sam resents his dad for the moment he's going to inevitably walk through the door, unknowingly and carelessly shattering their small piece of normal.<p>

As it gets closer and closer to John's return date, Sam gets more nervous about his injury being discovered. The adlet hunt was a month ago and the pain from the wound has pretty much faded to nothing, but the scar is just as gnarly as expected. The claw mark is six inches in length and maybe half an inch wide, all covered with rough, shiny skin that's still red. If he's lucky the skin will rebuild itself to where there isn't an indentation or a huge keloid. But as Sam's learned over the years, Winchesters aren't well equipped in luck.

Dean's checking over the wound one last time, pressing a thumb gently into it to check for pain, smoothing a silicon sheet over it to help heal the scar.

"I talked to Pastor Jim," Dean says absently as he makes sure the edges of the silicon sheet aren't going to peel up.

Sam eyes him, thinking that the lack of eye contact and the 'this is no big deal' tone of voice suggests that Dean's about to talk about something that makes him uncomfortable."So?"

Dean shrugs, "I mentioned we might need some legit insurance, maybe a good cover story, and a distraction for dad. Might take a few months but…" Another shrug.

"You know you're making no sense right now, right?"

"Figured we need those things if we were gonna do something about your scar. Plastic surgeons aren't exactly local clinics, you know."

Sam stares until Dean shifts uncomfortably and snaps, "Dude, stop staring."

"Christo."

"Did you just _bless_ me?"

Sam squints, wondering if he saw a flash of black or if it was just the shadows in the bathroom, "It's not normal for you to want to lie to dad this much."

Dean huffs and scratches a hand through his hair, clearly irritated that Sam's pushing to talk, "Look, it was our hunt, ok? We're seeing it through until the end and that," Dean points to the scar, "Is the end. And besides, it's my job to look after you."

Dean starts gathering the wrappings to the scar sheet to throw them away and stands to leave the bathroom, apparently having decided that the conversation is over.

"Dean!" Sam calls before his brother can shut down too far or get too far away. He turns back around and Sam says, "Thank you." Dean grunts in recognition but Sam can see the way his face softens and lips quirk.

* * *

><p>John returns that Tuesday. He walks in the house looking visibly fatigued but content, relieved to see his boys in one piece. Sam and Dean meet him at the door and take turns hugging him, ending the embraces with clapped shoulders and squeezed necks.<p>

"You take care of your brother?" John asks Dean.

"Yes, sir."

"Anything happen?"

"No, sir."

John nods, satisfied, then smiles, "Good job, boys."

He goes into the kitchen to get a beer or some food or both, and Sam and Dean are left in the living room, staring at each other with the weight of the adlet between them.

**\**

John wants to leave ASAP, of course, something about a possible wendigo in Washington. So it's Friday morning and Sam makes Dean drive him to the high school before they leave town.

"What the hell for?" Dean asks, "We're about to finally blow this town."

"Just something I wanna do, ok?"

Dean rolls his eyes but relents.

First period has already started so the hallways are virtually empty, which is exactly the way Sam wants it. Quickly he searches down the rows of lockers before he finds the one he wants, and slips in a piece of paper through the door seam.

When they're putting Eureka, Montana in their rear view mirror and the mountain's getting smaller in the distance, Dean says, "I hate that friggin' town," but Sam can hear a new found fondness in the words.

"Yeah," Sam says, "Me too."

* * *

><p>The locker is yanked open harder than necessary. As a book is shoved in a folded-up piece of paper tumbles out and floats to the ground. Rough fingers pick it up and pause at the unfamiliar weight. Inside is a simple note written in slanted print:<p>

_One day things will be different. I promise._

_-S.W._

Robert grins, balls up the note, and throws it away on his way to homeroom.

* * *

><p>Notes: So I just realized that in chapter one I had Dean in high school with Sam, even though I clearly stated multiple times that Dean's 21 *facepalm.* Let's just assume that the scene between Robert, Sam, and Dean happened after school and Dean came looking for Sam when he was taking too long to come out to the car.<p> 


End file.
